


Stab Wound

by TetrodotoxinB



Series: Whumptober 2019 [8]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Bleeding, Day 8, Gratuitous science because Mac is talking, Shock, Stab Wound, Whumptober 2019, loss of consciousness, prompt: stab wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 14:37:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Mac gets stabbed. I made my beta cry. I think you get the idea.Whumptober prompt: Stab wound.





	Stab Wound

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Secret_Library98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secret_Library98/pseuds/Secret_Library98) who is the best since I apparently keep smooshing her in this process and she keeps reading anyway. <3

It’s bad. Mac’s seen wounds like this before and he’s seen people go into shock and die long before help arrives. He presses his hand down around the knife to keep it from shifting and hisses in pain. Then, with the knife stabilized, Mac gropes for the walkie talkie. It’s out of reach, though only barely. The motion sends bolts of agony through Mac’s torso and he screams, but this is too important a task to give up. Finally, his fingertips graze the edge of the walkie enough that he can pull it closer and then grab it.

Mac presses the talk button on the walkie. “This is Mac. Does anyone copy?” 

“We read you, Mac. How’s it going with Anders?” Bozer answers.

“He’s dead.”

There’s a pause. “Alright, I mean I didn’t think you had to go that hard, but you do you. You on your way to exfil?”

Mac winces and presses the talk button. “Not exactly. Anders stabbed me. I’m gonna need medevac ASAP.”

“The hell you mean ‘he stabbed me’? Why didn’t you lead with that?” Jack shouts through the walkie. Mac winces from the pain and then winces again from the pain of wincing.

“How far out is help? I’m not gonna last too long,” Mac says.

There are a couple of clicks, aborted attempts to say something before Matty’s voice reaches Mac. “A helo is inbound. ETA twenty minutes. Mac, describe your wound. I’ve got a medic on the line that might be able to offer help.”

Mac swallows and looks down. “The knife is a standard chef’s knife, so probably about eight inches long. It’s not serrated. Only about three inches are left protruding from the upper right portion of my abdomen, just below the ribs. I’m experiencing significant blood loss, though the effects of hypovolemic shock haven’t set in yet.”

The walkie clicks and then there’s a voice that Mac doesn’t recognize. “Hi, Mac, I’m Amy. That’s a good description, thank you for your thoroughness. Do you have any other injuries?”

Mac takes a moment before he decides that, no, he doesn’t. They talk back and forth about his injury and what he could be doing to protect himself while he waits. After a minute or so, Amy grants that Mac is probably doing literally everything she would be doing if she were there with him. 

Their talk turns to which organs are probably damaged. One on hand, it keeps Mac focused on something other than his very probable and impending demise. On the other hand, it takes a lot for Mac not to panic at the thought of how bad his injuries likely are. Most likely, his internal injuries are going to be completely life-altering, but even if by some chance they’re not, by the time he gets to the hospital the blood loss could result in permanent brain damage. If he survives this, which is a big if, he could be permanently disabled.

“I think we need to talk about something else. I’m starting to panic,” Mac admits. His breath comes fast and shallow and he wants to cry. Mac has worked so hard for so long to get to be who and what he is. The thought of losing it all in the next few minutes is far more terrifying than Mac ever realized it could be.

“Hey, Mac,” Matty says into the walkie. “I have this problem at my house. I was wondering if you could help me solve it while we wait.”

Mac nods, though he knows she can’t see him, and tears roll down his cheeks. “Sure, Matty. What is it?”

“So in the winter, my living room is colder than the rest of my house and in the summer it’s warmer, though the temperature variation isn’t as significant as in the winter. My house is well insulated and my HVAC is serviced yearly. Any idea what’s going on?”

Mac knows what she’s doing and he knows that she can answer this question for herself, but it’s better than watching his own blood seep out around the knife in his stomach. “Do you have an attic?”

“I do.”

“Do you have any gables or louvered vents in your attic? Maybe in the side of the house under the peak of the roof?” Mac asks, trying to imagine the outside of his boss’ house.

“Yes, one on the front and one on the back,” Matty answers.

Mac shifts because he’s starting to slide down the wall and a shift in position could be dangerous, and the pain makes his vision go grey for a few seconds.

“Mac?” Matty calls. Mac can hear the worry in her voice.

“Sorry, hurts,” Mac explains, unable to keep his voice even any longer.

“Do I need to get Amy?” Matty asks.

Mac shakes his head and the room spins a little. “No, Matty. She can’t do anything. So, your house. The gables. A lot of houses have windows that cover the gables. If you go in the attic, you can close the inside window to keep the warm air in during the winter. Most louvered vents, which are more modern, are metal and you can shut the vent flaps from the inside for the same effect.”

“Okay, that explains the winter. What about the summer?” Matty presses.

Mac really wants to let go of the knife and wrap his arms around himself. It’s cold in here, so cold. He could use a blanket. God, when did he start shivering?

“Mac!” Matty shouts.

Mac looks down at his hand which is limp by his side, though still gripping the walkie. He’d forgotten about it entirely. “Yeah, Matty?”

“Mac, what’s going on?” she asks.

“‘M in shock. ‘S cold. Do you have a chimney?”

“Do I what?” Matty squawks.

“Do you have a chimney?” Mac repeats. “You know, the big tube attached to the fire place.”

“Don’t get smart with me, blondie,” Matty bites back, but Mac thinks she sounds scared instead of mad. “Yes, I have a fireplace and chimney.”

“Is your flue damper open or closed?” Mac asks.

“I- I don’t know actually. I’ve never used it,” Matty admits with some surprise.

“The Stack effect. Probably lets some warm air in during the summer, depending on the relative humidity gradient between the inside and outside. Would explain the summer flu- fluctuations…” Mac slurs his words and then trails off altogether. This is exhausting — thinking, talking, being awake. 

He’s so tired and Mac knows he shouldn’t, but keeping his eyes open is the most exhausting thing he’s ever done. And he’s cold. He’s never been this cold in his entire life, not even that time that he and Jack got frostbite in the arctic. He can’t stop shaking and it just hurts so goddamn much. He wants his mom, wants someone to hold him and tell him it’s going to be okay because it doesn’t feel okay. It feels scary and Mac doesn’t want to die alone, not like this. 

He fumbles with the walkie in his hand, tries to grab it and press the button but he can’t seem to bring his hand to his face or make his mouth work. They’ve got to be close. Please, please. He doesn’t want to be alone like this. Doesn’t want to die alone like this.

Mac’s not a crier, hasn’t been since his dad left him, wrote him off like a failed project, relegated to the trash heap behind the garage. But he can feel tears, warm against his cooling skin, roll down his cheeks and they won’t stop and Mac’s not sure he cares; he just wishes someone would wipe them away. Wishes it was his mom again because she never left him alone like this.

Pain flares in his stomach, the world inverts, and reflexively Mac grips the knife to stabilize it, slicing his fingers in the process. He’s slipping down the wall, he’s falling but it’s so far down, why is he still falling? Distantly, like someone yelling through mud, Mac hears a voice. 

“You can let go of the knife, Mac. We’ve got it, we’ve got you.”

Mac tries to open his eyes, but everything is dark and he can’t track to the voice because his eyes and ears aren’t working right. 

Fingers loosen his grip until his hand falls limply away and other hands press dressings carefully around the knife. 

“Good. There you go. Just take it easy. We’re headed to the hospital right now.”

The gurney bumps and clatters against the ground, and Mac groans in pain. Being lifted into the helo is worse and when they take off, Mac blacks out. He wakes up to someone putting in an IV. The terror that had abated with his loss of consciousness rushes back up and Mac can’t help whispering, “Please, please.”

“We got to you in time, buddy. You’re gonna make it,” someone says as they slip their hand into his.

He grips it tight, with whatever meager strength he has left, and hopes that they’re right.


End file.
